Supper
by wittyblather
Summary: Sporks, Texas is nothing like Canada. First, it's quite hot and dusty. Second, hockey is completely unknown. Third, it has a certain Eddie Cullen who's just about irresistable. Rated 'T' for language and some politically incorrect content.


I must have been out of my mind.

Sure, Mom had never gone right out and _said_ that I wasn't welcome at home. After all, I cooked dinner, took out the trash, did the dusting, paid the bills, cleaned the gutters, and occasionally administered sponge baths to her and Phillipa, her wife, so I was pretty damn necessary to the smooth running of our Canadian home. However, there were ever so tiny signs that neither of my moms wanted me hanging around much longer. Renee, referred to as Mom #1 from here on out, was the kinder of the two. She'd say things like "Oh, Phillipa's wrestling career would be SO fruitful if we could move beyond this Canadian town. If only we didn't have a daughter who needed to finish high school," or "I hear the weather in Texas is lovely this time of year. Have you ever thought of visiting your father Charlie, Bella?" Phillipa, also known as Mom #2 or Butch Bitch, was much more frank. She just threw bottles at my head and locked me out of the house. I soon felt that I was not only unwelcome, but unwanted, the disturbing reminder of Mom #1's brief bout with heterosexuality. I strongly suspected that the tears from my moms after my announcement to move were tears of joy. But you never knew with lesbians.

"I'm sorry that Phillipa can't come see you off, dear. She's got a wrestling match today, and we're thinking this might be her shot at the big leagues." Mom #1 explained to me as she tossed me my bag of clothes. I'd thought it strange that I wasn't getting a proper suitcase for my belongings, few as they were, but both my parents had assured me that in Texas, it was perfectly suitable to walk around in your underwear. They had, however, insisted that I take a T-shirt for church, as well as a Spanish to English dictionary, in case I ran into any wild Mexicans. I ranked those with leprechauns and mermaids in my mind, though. I thought they were just a bedtime story parents scared their children with. "Work hard in school, or the MEXICANS will getcha!"

I shouldered my bag of underclothes and turned to give my biological mother a parting hug, only to find that she'd raced the car away when I'd turned my back, leaving skid marks on the road in front of me. Shrugging, I turned and made my way towards the gate, which was in the farthest possible location from where my doting mom had dropped me off. I was hardly excited about going to live with my dad. He lived in a town called Sporks in the middle of scenic nowhere, known as Texas to some Americans. It was a five hour drive from the Dallas airport, and thanks to the US's plane traffic system, I had layovers in ten separate cities and Cuba, though admittedly I only spent an hour there. When I'd asked why I couldn't just go straight to Dallas, the people on the other end of the phone just laughed and did imitations of my question in funny voices. I did not find it amusing.

My flights were not as tiresome as I'd expected them to be, mainly because I was able to sleep for the first time in years without hearing Phillipa's wrestling grunts all night. Needless to say, I was quite refreshed when I stepped off that final plane from Wyoming and into the final airport, and by golly, I was even a bit cheerful.

That died when I remembered how much I hated my dad.

My eyes caught on an obese man in a tan police uniform and cowboy hat vehemently arguing with a security guard about whether or not he could keep his shotgun with him beyond security.

"Dadgum it, it's not even loaded! I couldn't hurt a kangaroo rat with this thing!" His accent was thick enough to be a separate language, and I was only able to decipher what he was saying by shutting my eyes and pretending that there was subtitles below everything he said. My father must have seen my intently concentrated face, though, for he burst through the throngs of people, shouting "Bella! Honeybuns! I haven't seen you in years!"

"That's because Mom got a restraining order, Dad." I reminded him as I was crushed into a bear hug, nearly vomiting at the smell that radiated off his burly arms. I seriously questioned whether he'd heard the word 'soap' in his life.

"Aw, those Canadans and their politics. A good death threat builds character." He shook his fist in the air, as if to prove his point. Perhaps I was not familiar enough with Texan sign language to understand the gesture, but I failed to see how this furthered his case in the slightest. "Is Renee still with that butch, or's she finally seen the light?"

"Renee and Phillipa are married, Dad. Divorces aren't handed out like playing cards." I argued monotonously as he turned to get possession of his shotgun once more. Sooner than I would have liked, I was plopped into the rustiest, most disgusting car in human history and was being carted towards that fateful place called Sporks. If only I'd stayed with that creepy man in Cuba.

I decided to be socially awkward and not talk to my dad for the first three hours of the trip, but eventually the country music was pushing me to suicidal range, and I had to break the silence somehow, lest I go on a murderous rampage with my bulky dictionary and detachable bra straps.

"Nice…buggy." I stated, trying to remember the Texan lingo I had studied up on before making this transition. Now all I had left to use were "Y'all" and "howdy", and I'd blend right in. I could probably fake the accent too if I plugged my nose and used my French twang.

"Aw, you mean Shirley here?" He gave the dashboard a good thump, leaving cracks behind. Such a sturdy vehicle. "She's a beaut. I reckon I've had her longer 'n I've had you. The best part about her, though, is that I can stick this Port-o-Siren on top, and bam! I can run red lights!"

"I think that's for emergencies only, Dad." My father was the sheriff of Sporks, and was thus known as Sheriff Swan. I liked to say it to myself sometimes, since it did kinda sound cool. Sheriff Swan. Sheriff Swan. "Will I have to drive this piece of shi-" I quickly changed my intended word, "-rley? Shirley?" It was not wise to insult an obese police officer's car, especially when they were driving it.

"Naw, I got you a nice little car. Not sure if you'll fit in, but it'll getcha where you need to go. Dun worry, though. You can borrow Shirley or one o' the horses if you want to impress a boy. Not that you'd be the one driving, o' course." My dad assured me, making a sudden right turn that shocked away the rest of my will to speak.

Two hours of "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy" later, we started to pull into the infamous Sporks. I'd half expected the sandy, desert like area around the road we'd been using to clear up as we neared civilization. However, unlike my will to live, it was not disappearing, and even the tumbleweeds seemed to be rolling away from it as fast as their little, plant like tentacles would carry them. Everything was sandy and yellow. Absolutely. Freaking. EVERYTHING. Even the air had sand in it, and I had several violent coughing fits while my father obliviously sang along to "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" in his sweet, sweet ignorance. Country music was apparently higher on the priority list than monitoring your child's life in Texas.

Finally, when I'd suffered more abuse in that car than I'd ever had from Phillipa, we pulled into our home's auspicious driveway that lead to a cozy looking doublewide with various pink flamingos and gnomes stuck out front in the area that would have been a yard, provided that there was grass. There wasn't, of course. Not even the pitiful fake stuff poor people had. At least mowing the grass wouldn't be a chore of mine. I sighed, wondering how far I'd need to drive before I encountered a bridge or cliff tall enough for me to dive from. Any afterlife would certainly be better than whatever this place had to offer.

"Here's your room, Bella." My dad informed me giddily, gesturing to a small door in the wall that led to an even smaller room. The interior design was just disgusting. Pink teddy bears lined the walls, dancing around with red hearts and shitting butterflies and rainbows that also managed to be primarily pink. The window shades were a nauseatingly bright hot pink, as was the door to my closet. My soul could not help but let out a small squeak of pain, which my father clearly misinterpreted as delighted surprise, for a belly laugh unlike any other I'd heard split the silence of the room like the bloody razor I would likely become very acquainted with during my stay here. "I kept the wallpaper from when you were a kid, but I had the paint on the windows and closet door redone. Don't you just love it? Margie stopped by and thought it was absolutely precious."

I wanted to scream and run, but some twisted servant's complex in my brain forced me to fake a smile, turn to the man, and say "Yes, Dad. I _love_ it." Oh, Bella, you want to know where the knife collection is? Why? No reason. Instead of praising me for my good behavior, however, my dad chose to beat me through repeated claps to the shoulder in some misplaced form of an affectionate gesture.

"Good. Time to see the car, then. School starts tomorrow. Can't have you wandering aimlessly around the house looking for the car in the morning, can I?" I was about to protest this insult to my common sense, but then my culture sensors kicked in and I remembered that people did things differently in America. Perhaps they didn't keep cars in their garages, but in their bathrooms. If that was indeed the case, I should have been grateful for this heads up, as it would have prevented quite a shock upon the discovery of a Chevy in the shower. I was not led to the stall of a bathroom, however, but to the garage, like I would have been in Canada, and promptly proceeded to shit a brick.

In the garage sat a Lamborghini. A new Lamborghini that didn't even have the coat of sand that everything else in this town. This slightly made up for my hideous room, though only slightly. Hey, I had to find _something_ to be depressed about, right? And my absolutely gorgeous- er, extremely plain looks weren't going to do it for me.

It was very hard to sulk and be depressed in my obnoxiously pink room with neighbors singing Celine Dion while drunk next door, so eventually I had to give up on being angsty and actually go to sleep, though I was tormented through the night by visions of unicorns singing "Sexy Back" while trampling gnomes. It seemed a bit ridiculous when I woke up, but at the time it was very frightening, especially when those gnomes could have easily been my old next door neighbors. The thought of giving them a frantic call of carnivorous unicorn warning was erased, however, when I remembered that like most teenagers, I would have to go to school that day. What hideous, Medieval-esque torture. Perhaps the sadistic teachers would actually ask me to introduce myself. Bastards.

I wallowed in self-pity for a moment before I heard my father call out, "Bella! Get yer fanny down here and fry me up some eggs 'n bacon!" Ever loving daughter as I was, I dressed in the outfit that had been picked out for me upon the discovery that I'd only brought bras and undies and went downstairs to humbly serve my father's request. He was the bread bringer for the family, after all, and my respect came in the form of fatty, fried delicacies that I suspected would have given me a heart attack upon consumption. Dad didn't seem to mind, though, and I saw that he employed the rarely used "garbage disposal" technique while eating, in which the diner tips all the food on a given plate into his or her mouth and chews noisily. I could see why Renee had opted to divorce this porcine man. I'd been looking at a thesaurus in my sleep too, so I knew just the right word to describe my dad. My prideful mastery of the English language along with the thought of driving my slick new Lamborghini gave me the self-confidence to venture outside of the doublewide, though the paranoia started to kick in again as I sat fearfully staring at the dashboard of the flawless car. There were people out there. People who wanted to get to know me and help me with my books and sit next to me in class. People who'd want to know my name. I nearly ran screaming back into the house, but ever the martyr, I decided that I shouldn't worry my dad with such trivial matters such as a budding emotional disorder and resolutely turned the key in the ignition to start the car.

It didn't move. The engine didn't make a sound.

My distress was cut short by Dad bumbling into the garage, greedily eying his precious Shirley before noticing that his daughter was homebound in a dysfunctional Lamborghini. It was soundproof in the car, but the point-and-laugh gesture is universally recognized. I pouted innocently before opening the door to hear what my father had to say about my predicament.

"Oh yeah, old Pedro told me how he got that car so cheap." He started, leaning on the side of his car, which I hoped would collapse under him and his gratuitous bulk. Man, I was on a roll with the vocab today! "It's a new engine model tha' dun run on gas, but on sound waves. Ya have to play Brittany Spears' 'Womanizer' at max volume to get it t' run. There're rumors that High School Musical works too, but I'd play it safe with Britney. Tha' Zac Efron's gay as your mom." Only in my case would that sentence be anything truer than a 'your mom' joke. He handed me the CD that would act as my gas, and I reluctantly popped it in, wondering how this American artist sounded.

I'd learned my lesson in the two-minute drive to school. Earplugs would be quite a good investment for the future.

The high school was a simple T-shaped building, made of bricks the color of dried blood flecked with squash. Someone had blacked out the letters on the sign that should have read 'Sporks High School' so that it now read 'Orks High School'. Great. Nothing to brighten a high school like a band of Tolkien geeks. The horrid music blaring from my car earned me several looks of confusion from the students walking into the school, and I did my best to pretend that they were actually looking at the amusing clown situated directly behind me instead of at my formerly kickass vehicle of transportation. I parked in the diminutively sized parking lot for cars, narrowly avoiding the posts where I saw several horses tied. Their eyes seemed to scream 'Set our wild spirits free, Bella! We long to run with the wind!' Perhaps I'd played Barbie: Horse Rescue a few too many times in my youth.

The main entrance was at the bottom of the T-shape, indicated by a large sign reading 'THIS IS THE MAIN ENTRANCE.' An office was located just down the hall, where the T split off into its two branches. I trekked over to it and entered, noticing the unremarkable décor. The fluorescent lights glinted off the white walls and flecked tile, nearly blinding me as I approached the administration desk. The secretary had a platinum blonde up-do and nails that could have poked my eyes out from at least a foot away. I was sure to keep my distance.

"H-Hello." I stammered, carefully adding a noise syllable to the beginning of my greeting. The woman looked up, exasperated, then took on a simple, irritated look when she saw that it was the new girl from Canada.

"Miss Isabella Swan?" My name came out as 'Iz-uh-BAYLL-uh'. "Here's yer schedule. The hall on the left," She pointed, figuring that, being from Canada, I was directionally impaired, "is the Science hall, and the one on the right," More pointing, "is Langudj and Humanities." I could only assume that this 'langudj' she mentioned would be Texan. I eyed the white sheet of paper wearily, horrified quietly of the classes I'd been enrolled in. Animal husbandry, agriculture, and 'Inglish' especially caught my eye.

"Excuse me, but I think there's a typo." I pointed out the subject labeled Creationism 101 in my schedule. "Shouldn't that be in the humanities hall?"

I only received a glare. "Not all of us are godless heathens," was her simple reply, to which I withdrew a bit. Wouldn't this be a fun year. After briefly telling me that lunch would be served in the abandoned barn off to the side of the school, the secretary shooed me away, ready to return to her over-the-counter romance novel.

Engl- sorry, Inglish was my first class, and was conveniently situated right next to the Mean Secretary'stm office. I pouted, having hoped for something to complain about, but walked in none the less. The teacher, Mr. Somethingorother, was a real live Mexican, though, so I cheered up really quickly and surprised him as I snapped a picture of him writing something on the board with my cell phone. That is, I took the picture with my cell phone. He was not writing with my cell phone. Anyway, I got a seat in the back of the room where I could be nice and antisocial, and I zoned out as the class discussed the class reading, Dr. Seuss's "Green Eggs and Ham". I'd already read it, of course, along with all the other books on the list, including the Encyclopedia Britannica. Because I was just that damn special.

This guy actually turned around and started talking to me after class, which almost triggered me into screaming, though I kept the panic attack contained. He had acne like a pizza, and clearly had not bathed in weeks. I pushed my chair as far from him as possible.

"Hi. I heard yer name's Isabella?" His voice was squeaky, like a mouse. I resisted the urge to also talk like I'd just inhaled helium.

"Bella." I corrected curtly, sagely nodding at the same time. He seemed impressed at the knowledge I possessed about my person.

"Whatever. You wan' me t' walk you to yer next class?" I psychoanalyzed him with my eyes. This one was definitely a rapist in training, so I elbowed him in the face and made a wild dash for the door. The rest of the morning went smoothly, with me knowing everything about each subject and rolling my eyes at the subhuman cretins who sat in the rows ahead of me. I fell on my face twice, tripped five times, stumbled at least twenty two times, and prompted someone to call 911 once when I tripped over a desk. Eventually I gathered a group of followers, all who were chattering at me with their little accents and squealing whenever I deigned to glance in their direction. What morons, being nice to me. I clearly did not fit in here.

My gaggle of admirers stalked me to lunch, which was Salisbury steak with a suspicious white sauce. An especially tenacious follower kept talking to me all through lunch, along with the boy from Inglish, who had a hulking white cast over his nose now. I made a mental note to feel bad for him at some point. How could he rape anybody with that on his nose?

It was then that I saw _them_.

A group of five sat on one of the more clean looking hay bales, plates piled high with food in front of them, though they didn't touch it. They weren't even talking to each other. They just looked ahead, eyes unblinking. It would have been really effing creepy, had they not been the epitomes of SEX. Even their intense farmer's tans were beautiful, and for once I found T-shirt slogans funny, simply because these people wore them. I probably would have kept staring at them all day, had my faithful stalkers not suspected me of suddenly contracting slackjaw and brutally shut my gaping maw with their hands. I scowled at their concern.

"Who are they?" I inquired of the chatterbox girl, who nearly fainted at me speaking to her.

"Them's the Cullens. I reckon their names are Earl, Rosie Sue, Allie Mae, Jethro, and Eddie." She spouted, jumping up and down several times. I didn't look at her, instead focusing on the beautiful people who got up to throw away their trash. Untouched lunch meat smothered in gravy fell with a splat into the fodder tray, which the cows sniffed at before choosing not to be cannibals and backing away. Such grace, such poise. Lumbering and hocking loogies never looked so good. The handsomest, a decently built male with a bronzen mullet the color of sunlight dripping through autumn leaves chanced to look in my direction for a fleeting instant, and I could have vomited up my heart.

One of the quieter stalkers volunteered to take me to my next class, Agriculture, so with depression at being separated from the gods Sporks setting in, I walked back to the Science hall, listening to the girl named Angel talk about how great everything was. Luckily she was shy and socially awkward, so as long as I looked at her like I'd look at a bug and kept silent, she'd stop talking. That was more than I could say for Jewels, who'd probably keep at it even if you sewed her mouth shut.

Eventually we arrived at the classroom, and we found it necessary to take seats, lest the teacher punish us for our impudent uprightness. Angel, in an impressive display of self-pride, took a seat that would not allow me to sit next to her, and I looked around in mild shock for a spot to seat myself. That came in the form of a nasty little spot by—OMG, Eddie Cullen. I tripped over my own feet as I walked down the aisle, sending me plummeting to the floor with a thud. Someone laughed, and I told my homicidal urges to go away as I righted myself and proceeded to settle myself in the wooden chair next to the sex god. There was a scooching noise to my side, and when I looked, I saw that he'd pushed his chair as far away from mine as possible, looking at me with tar colored eyes that reflected absolute hatred and more than a little disgust. My paranoia came on full force, and I was forced to concentrate throughout the entire pointless class about differences between animals and plants just so that the voices telling me about elaborate plots concocted to hurt me would shut up. When the teacher finally said it was time to go, I barely had time to look over at Eddie before he'd pounded out of the classroom with the grace of a beautiful, obese gazelle.

Spiraling into cold depression, I ran bawling from the school, curling up into a tiny ball on the bottom of my Lamborghini floor, despite my obligation to appear in the rodeo class. I had no desire to wrangle bulls at the moment. I wanted to go eat my weight in Twinkies and read yaoi Naruto fanfiction. Remembering that I still had to turn some blasted sheet of paper in, though, I dragged myself off the velvet lined car floor and literally crawled into the office with the form held in my mouth, hoping that the secretary wouldn't notice my actions.

Unfortunately, Fate had decided to be bitchy today, because who waited in the office but the one, the only Eddie Cullen.

"I'm tellin' ya, Miss Zazazowsky, I _have_ to switch agriculture class-" He turned and noticed me crawling on all fours, staring up at him with adoring eyes. I gave my most charming grin. Apparently I'm about as charming as a billy goat, however, because the stunning man meat returned his pitch gaze to the undeserving secretary and spewed "Nev'r mind, I guess ya can't do nothing." Once again, he ran out of the room, though this time he more resembled not an overweight gazelle, but a practiced ballet wrestler. He even made rejection sexy. Wow.

I repeated my dramatic exit, throwing the tooth-marked paper on the desk before sprinting outside, tears running down my face in monumental waterfalls. Just to be a bitch, I hit some dude's horse in the butt as I drove off. Stupid Cullens, stupid Sporks, stupid life. I drove off, serenaded by Brittany Spears, deciding to take a refreshing maple syrup bath once I returned home.


End file.
